


Confined

by bacchanalia



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Attempted Murder, Blow Jobs, Drug Use, Grimmjow is a serial killer, M/M, Murder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, as well he should be, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-24 12:58:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14356002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchanalia/pseuds/bacchanalia
Summary: Three years ago, Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was committed to a mental hospital by the name of Seireitei for multiple counts of murder in the 1st degree, and one attempted murder of Kurosaki Ichigo, the man who was falling in love with him.





	Confined

What's the difference between me and you?

You talk a good one - but you don't do what you supposed to do.

I act on what I feel and never deal wit’ emotions

I'm used to livin' big dog style and straight coastin’.

“What’s The Difference?” -Dr. Dre

* * *

 

Straight jackets must have been sewn by a seamstress who’d never experienced a hug, wielding razor wire as thread. You would know because you’ve been in one for the past 3 years, give or take a few months. It was hard to count how long you sat in a room without the days blurring into one, after all. But maybe that’s what all of this was. Just one jumbled clusterfuck of bullshit.

By your standards, you didn't do anything wrong, and you’re not just saying that for the cliche of it all. It's not your problem people can't accept who you are. You swear killing would be a more popular sport if everyone would just take the sticks out of their asses. But, it can't be helped. Anyways.

Your name is Grimmjow. Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez, and you’re at a point in your life where, more often than not, you leave out your last name to avoid people fucking it up and pissing you off. A lot of things piss you off, actually. Like being in this room. Everything's too white, too boring, too _sterile_.

The only things that stood out in this stark box were your hair and eyes, twin points of sky blue with your irises looking like they took the color and plunged it into the ocean. Back in the day, it used to be your skin too that stood apart from these bleached walls. But hey, you haven't seen the sun in quite some time, so no one has the right to judge your complexion.

You didn't ask to get locked up here. At least if they had sent you to prison you could've worked out and gotten a nice piece of ass to be your bitch. In here, though, you can practically feel your muscles withering away with the ticking of a clock. Not that you have one of those in your room. God forbid there’s anything to keep the sanity.

There’s another little bone of irony in here: keeping your sanity in an Insane Asylum. Of course, they don't like it when you call it that. You personally prefer 'Crazy Shit Hole' but, as anticipated, they don't like that either. You just can't please people these days. Not that you’d want to. In fact, it's a pity your hands are tied up, because when you think about how much you hate the staff of Seiretei you can't help but salivate at the fantasy of their blood painting your fingers. After all, you _are_ a convicted serial killer.

You wouldn't have gotten caught. No, you were too careful. That's the problem with most other criminals. They get caught up in the thrill of it, the exhilaration, and in chasing the high that comes along with stealing the light out of someone’s eyes. Then, they get sloppy. Not you. No, no, you were having way too much fun to risk being caught. Yeah, you knew full well it'd end eventually, but your dumbass thought it would either be with a self administered bullet to the brain, or something a bit more dramatic.

What you didn't account for was some ginger-headed fucker ruining your entire life and getting you sent to a looney bin. What was it that they said at your trial? Something about 'sociopathic and psychotic tendencies'. They didn't even trust you around inmates, which is hysterical to you. Since when did they give a shit about criminals? That's not the point though, the point is that it's all Kurosaki Ichigo's fault that you’re in here, and you’ll be damned if you ever forgive him.

The duration of your sentencing is never divulged in these kind of places but, you’ll get out one day. And Kurosaki's blood will be the first that you taste. Oh, and you’re planning on getting reacquainted with that tight little ass of his too, just for good measure. Guess this is the best time for the whole ‘you’re gay' news. Yeah. People thought a it was out of left field, but they can all go fuck themselves. You like what you like. That's all there is to it.

More than anything though, you’re livid that you still can't get his eyes out of your head. Those brown irises that reminded you of chocolate, even though you’re not a big fan of the stuff. Maybe that's why you couldn't kill him. His eyes made you freeze up because out of everything in this hard world you weren’t used to anyone treating you softly. You didn’t know how to deal with the fact that when Kurosaki looked at you, he saw something other than the monster you got off on being.

Still, you lie awake at night, poring over the question as if you’ll find some new nook or cranny that you hadn’t interrogated thus far. Why couldn't you do it? Why couldn't you just kill the asshole? He didn't beg, not like everyone else. He didn't cry, but you sort of wish he would have. He didn't even ask you the classic  'why are you doing this' groveling shit. No, he just stood there with his fucking eyes and stared at you. But no, it was so much more than staring, it was like he was looking into parts of yourself that you hadn’t even known were there. Shit, that was unnerving. You remember the whole thing so clearly because you can't quit replaying it over and over trying to see where you fucked up...

* * *

 

You never slept in the same place twice, you couldn't risk it. Your shocking blue hair was an eye catcher, to say the least, and your eyes didn’t really help that little detail. Not to mention, you’re about an inch over six feet and have intense aqua colored tattoos under your eyes from when you were a little shit who thought it looked bad ass. Who are you kidding, you still think they look badass. So, the point is you had two options: keep moving, or be recognized. You chose the one that didn’t spell out GAME OVER.

You sat on a park bench, wearing a dark grey beanie and sunglasses. It was a bright day out, even if it wasn't very hot. Early May will give you that kind of weather. You hadn't been expecting to get a new one that morning. For some reason, all you really wanted to do was sit on your ass, drink your coffee, and see what it was like to relax for a few hours. It seemed like everyone went on and on about stopping to listen to the birds or smell the roses, but you’d spent your life as a vulture covered in thorns.

What could it hurt to take a vacation day and see what all the fuss was about?

You took in your surroundings and they were nothing to write home about, even if you had one. Across the street is the convenience store where you bought your coffee that’s so dark it might start sucking in matter like a black hole. Just how you liked it. On the sidewalk, people meandered around like sheep lost in a field, that’s what you thought of them anyways. Sometimes it was unnerving to be close to anyone else. The predator in you can’t stand being closed in. You decided to find one point in the chaos to focus on while coffee scalded your tongue and throat in your impatience.

That’s when you heard him, from the soccer field behind the bench you sat on, his voice was loud and pulled your attention like a homing beacon. You turned to look and there he was, running up and down the length of the field with orange hair that put the sun to shame, and a smile that rivaled them both. Of course, you didn't know his name then. To you he was just some asshole playing soccer with this shorter, younger girl with black hair. The first thought that struck you was sister.

Though you think it should go without saying, you’re a man who loves your space and appreciates being left alone. But as your body moved to get up without making contact with your brain as to why, you decide to ignore the Golden Rule in favor of finding out what name went along with those long legs.

Lucky for you, most benches are located conveniently next to a trash can, so throwing away your empty corner store coffee cup can be done without taking your eyes off the target. You walked over, shoving your hands into the grey jeans you were wearing. The denim was tight, but not so tight that a person would wonder if you really had a dick or not. And for the record, you do.

If you were religious, you’d think it was a stroke of luck from the gods that Orangey’s sidekick sent the ball flying over his head and directly towards you. It’d save you the trouble of needing to come up with an excuse to talk to him in the first place. You caught the ball with one hand and loved the force it sent through your arm. If you’d been a better adjusted kid, maybe you could have gotten into sports instead of homicide.

You continued the walk up to their field, ball in hand and a cocky grin on your face. Part of it was pride over your athleticism, and the rest of it was because the moment Orangey saw you, he froze. Maybe you were imagining it, but you could have sworn his mouth hung open a bit too. There was no shame in it, you were damn sexy, after all.

“Think you dropped somethin’,” you say.

“Yeah… Thanks.” He reaches out for the ball, but you’re not quite ready to let this exchange go just yet. You haven’t even begun. As you lift your hand a bit to ensure that the soccer ball stays in your grasp, and out of Carrot Top’s reach, your lips pull into a smirk.

“What’s your name?”

Orangey follows your motions of keeping the ball away from him, and scowl sets onto his features in the time it takes you to notice he’s got freckled spanning over the bridge of his nose. Cute. Not like you’d be caught dead saying that anywhere other than the confines of your own mind, though.

“Why do you care?” He seems suspicious. “Can I have that back now? My sister will kill me if some asshole steals her soccer ball.”

He’s feisty. You like that.

You _really_ like that.

“That ain't a very nice way to talk to someone you just met. No one taught'cha manners?" You realize you’re still smiling, which was weird because you don't ever do that unless you’re about to go in for the kill. And hadn’t you said you were off the clock today? Though, looking at this kid, he had the kinda throat you’d loved to rip out with your teeth.

“Never said I was nice.”

“Guess you didn't. Tell you what, you give me your name, and I'll give you the ball. Deal?" You cocked an eyebrow, waiting for a response. This was out of the ordinary for you, you never really talk to people. At least, not more than absolutely necessary to get them where you want them. And hardly ever during the day with people who couldn’t keep their eyes to themselves.

Maybe it was his hair. That crazy vibrant orange that was just as blaring and obvious as yours. And maybe that meant he knew what it was like to get shit his entire life based on something he couldn't control. Or, maybe it was because he had the kind of lips that were begging for everything they can’t show outside of porn sites. You don’t actually care, you just wanted a name.

Before he can answer, the younger girl came jogging over to where you stood. “You can’t run away just because you were losing, Ichigo.” She paused, looking over at you. “Who's this?” Her voice was a bit deeper than you had expected, and those dark eyes were unflinching, just like Orangey's. If only she knew what you did to people who looked at you like that.

“No one, Karin. Just go back over to the goal post, yeah? I'll be back in a sec.”

Interesting. It was like he could sense your danger and felt the need to send her away. He ran his fingers through his hair, huffing as a scowl painted his face. It fit him, for some odd reason. “My name’s Kurosaki Ichigo, alright? Now give it back.”

Kurosaki Ichigo. Now that's a name you don't hear everyday. You held the soccer ball out to him, though he'd need to step closer to grab it. “I'm Grimmjow. ‘Ichigo’ means ‘strawberry’ in english, right? You even kinda look like one.” Maybe it was subconscious, but your tongue spent a little too much time enunciating the syllables of his name. Not that you minded. You thought your voice was sexy as fuck. Berry boy must have thought so too, because a slight blush crept up over his cheek bones as you spoke.

“Wow, a hair joke?” His lips tug up into a sort of grin, but you can tell he’s more annoyed than amused. Either would suit you just fine if it had Kurosaki making more expressions. “What does your name mean, then? Cotton candy?”

“If it did, I wouldn’t be livin’ up to it. Ain’t nothin’ sweet about me, Strawberry.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Damn, Winterberry is more like it. You’re cold as hell.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still holding my ball.”

The grin that eats up your face makes him regret his choice of wording instantly. Most people may have let the euphemism slide, but you weren’t so merciful. “I’d do more than just hold one, Kurosaki.”

“If that’s the extent of your pick-up lines, it’s no wonder you’ve resorted to kidnapping sports equipment.” He grumbles out the words and you expect him to finally make a lunge for the soccer ball, but much to your surprise there seems to be the faintest hint of an actual smile on his face. Your good looks really do most of the work for you if any of this conversation is even relatively working in your favor.

“Gimme some time, I’m sure I’ll think of somethin’ you like better.” There’s a joke in there somewhere about you asking your prey to give you more time. You’ll be stealing the rest of his, after all. But the sentiment leaves you anyways because the idea of it is too good to pass up. In the back of your mind, instinctual warning bells go off, but you ignore them. It wasn’t like you’d be able to kill the guy here anyways. You’d have to see him again to get the job done.

“Is that right?” Kurosaki is grinning now. You’re not sure whether he’s an idiot, or you’re better at this than you thought, but everything considered, you expect it’s the former.

Testing your boundaries, you take a step closer to him. “Yeah, that’s right. So, you busy later?”

Kurosaki teased his lower lip with his teeth, and it shot straight to your dick because you knew it wasn’t intentional. The bastard was just trying to hide a smile, but it was always the oblivious seduction that worked best on you anyways. He took a step forward as well and you wonder whether or not you’d be down for having him blow you in the middle of a public soccer field.

So, it came as a shock to both your pride and expectations when Kurosaki grabbed the ball out of your hand and turned on his heel.

“Sorry,” he said, tossing up his free hand in a wave. “I don’t have time for jackasses.” And as your jaw definitely wasn’t hanging open, he didn’t even give you a backwards glance. There’s only a fraction of a second that passes before your look post-suckerpunch morphs into a feral grin. Nobody loved a game of cat and mouse more than you, and it’d been a while since you found one with enough fire in their eyes to rival your own. This was gonna be fun.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! First of all, thank you very much for reading this. For those of you that aren't aware, this was originally a fic I posted back on ff.net in 2013. I abandoned it after last updating in 2016. Recently, someone got me thinking about it again and I stumbled upon a doc of notes I'd written up for plans and directions for the story, SO here we are. It was extremely difficult to rework 5year old writing, but I hope I've done as decent job. How do you guys feel about the 2nd person pov? I had a lot of fun with it and I think it gives something extra to anyone who's read this fic in the past. All the main points will still occur, but hopefully it'll be a unique and fun ride all on its own!


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